


Stop the Cavalry

by Papa_Lazarou



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Christmas Time, M/M, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2017, WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 12:30:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13007820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papa_Lazarou/pseuds/Papa_Lazarou
Summary: World War II is a hard time for many people, not least a gay couple, where one is the head of the army and the other in out fighting the war.Based loosely on the song Stop the Cavalry by Jona Lewie (go listen to it)





	Stop the Cavalry

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks go to The Moth and Eggsy for being wonderful and making all this happen. Love you guys.
> 
> And a owe a lot to the Tumblr user somemaysayinsane for her ability to read this cynically and check for spelling, grammatical, and maths errors. This wouldn’t be here without you.

Lance Corporal Lestrade was doing his rounds with the troops. It should have been a simple task; check a mile radius around the base camp and report back. Lestrade had only taken a dozen men, but of course it wasn’t that simple.

About half way around the patrol, Lestrade noticed a large mound of dirt off to one side.

“Halt!” Lance Corporal Lestrade shouted, holding up his right hand in a fist.

But his command was too little too late. One of his better men, Private Kirds, had stepped too near the mound. They all heard a loud ticking.

Greg dived down and away from the ticking bomb, he clasped his hands over his head and waited for the explosion.

* * *

Field Marshal Holmes had finally gotten back to his house from a long twenty-six hours at the office. The house never really felt like home, not since Gregory had been drafted into the war. They both knew that Greg could have stayed at home safe, or as safe as he could possibly be in a country at war, though they both also knew that Greg would have hated every moment, feeling restless and cowardly.

Mycroft poured himself a liberal amount of scotch before sitting at his desk and picking up his pen. He wrote the letter in his neatest cursive handwriting.

_Dearest Gregory,_

_I hope Corporal Peterson is treating you and the privates well. You know that I will stop at nothing to ensure your safety in all areas I can control._

_I got your letter and photograph, and I must say that a small beard suits you well. I wish I could give you the Christmas present that you deserve, but all I can give you is the knowledge that I am doing everything to stop this war and bring you home._

_I love you, my dear. And I hope to see you in good health soon._

_Yours forever,  
Mycroft._

As Mycroft finished his scotch, he placed the letter carefully in the envelope and sealed it.

As he got up to change into his pyjamas and dressing gown, there was a knock at the door.

Mycroft knew that the person on the other side could be coming with all sorts of information regarding their troops efforts, or new knowledge regarding the enemy, but still Mycroft’s stomach gave way to butterflies for the fear of Greg’s health.

Mycroft opened the door to two army personnel, with their hats removed. Mycroft’s heart bottomed; this was never a good sign.

“Where is he? Where is Lance Corporal Lestrade?” Mycroft asked in a strangled voice.

“May we come in, Field Marshal Holmes?” The first man asked.

“No. You shall take me to Gregory this instant.” Mycroft ordered.

The two men looked at each other nervously. Their commanding officer had told them what to do; go to the Holmes-Lestrade residence and explained to the occupancy what had happened to Lance Corporal Lestrade. But this was Field Marshal Holmes, their commanding officer’s commanding officer.

They came to the conclusion at the same time. They would take Holmes to see Lestrade and hope the repercussion weren’t altogether too bad.

“Right this way, sir.” The first man said.

Mycroft followed the pair to the idling car. The two men got into the front, allowing Mycroft the whole of the back seats.

“What has happened to Gregory?” Mycroft asked as the car set off.

“There was an explosion, Sir.” The second man said. “Do not worry, Lance Corporal Lestrade was not killed. The men he was with have died from the resulting wounds, but the doctors pose that the Lance Corporal will make a full recovery.”

Mycroft released a breath that he didn’t know he was holding. His Gregory would survive; he was injured, but he was home, and would make a full recovery.

At the hospital, Mycroft forced his way to the front reception.

“I demand to know where Lance Corporal Lestrade is.”

“And who may you be?” The petite receptionist asked, haughtily.

“I am Field Marshal Mycroft Holmes.” Mycroft pointed to his badge on his left breast. “And I demand to know where Lestrade is staying.”

The receptionist finally took in the sight of Mycroft. “He is on the third floor. The second ward, and the third bed on the left. But he is to have no visitors.”

Mycroft gave the receptionist a pointed stare, who blushed and continued with her paperwork. He raced up to Greg’s ward and skidded to a halt beside his bed.

Greg’s skin was pale, far too pale, his eyes were closed tightly, his left hand was above the covers. Mycroft grasped at it, trying to keep his grip loose.

As Greg didn’t move, Mycroft allowed a solitary tear to roll down his cheek. He hastily rubbed it away before catching a doctor’s eye.

“What has happened to Lance Corporal Lestrade?” Mycroft asked.

“The Lance Corporal has had excessive injuries to his back and arms. However, he should be able to make a full recovery and he should be discharged in time for Christmas.” The doctor replied, before heading to another patient.

* * *

The 23rd of December. That second happiest day of Mycroft’s life. The first was when Gregory took Mycroft out for a pint of beer and they went back to Greg’s home, and Mycroft stayed the night.

On the 23rd of December Greg woke up. He had been asleep for three days; three days of not knowing that Mycroft was constantly by his side, constantly whispering sweet nothings.

When Greg woke up, Mycroft was asleep. He stared at the ceiling for some time trying to work out where he was and what he was doing there. The white ceiling and bedding gave Greg the clues he needed to know he was in a hospital. The pain in his shoulders and back gave him the knowledge of why he was there. He groaned as he turned his head to one side and watched as Mycroft slept silently.

It hurt to move, but Greg turned up the corners of his mouth into a small smile.

He noticed Mycroft’s hand in his own and squeezed it lightly. Mycroft’s eyes shot open to see Greg smiling up at him.

“Oh God, you’re okay.” Mycroft leant down and peppered Greg’s forehead with light kisses.

“God, stop.” Greg moaned.

Mycroft pulled away in both shock and fear.

“I have a splitting headache and that’s just… I love you.”

Mycroft placed his hand on Greg’s cheek. Greg burrowed his face into the warmth.

“I love you too, Gregory.” Mycroft whispered.

* * *

The next day Greg was released from the hospital, partially to free up a bed, but mainly because Mycroft wanted Greg home for Christmas. He was released with the orders of bedrest and warm liquid, food and drink.

Mycroft complied wholeheartedly. He helped Greg to the car, and from the car to their bed. He undressed Greg from the hospital gowns and almost broke down at the sight of Greg’s back and arms.

“Oh Gregory, how are you not in pain?” Mycroft asked softly.

“I am.” Greg’s eyes prickled with tears. “But you manage to keep the majority of it at bay.”

“Oh Gregory.” Mycroft breathed again, he softly wrapped his arms around Greg’s waist.

Greg leaned back into Mycroft’s warm embrace and closed his eyes. He moaned as Mycroft softly kissed his throat.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you a Christmas present.” Greg said softly.

Mycroft nuzzled his nose into Greg’s shoulder and dared to squeeze Greg a bit tighter but Greg squirmed, clearly in pain.

Mycroft let go of him and pulled away, “I’m sorry, beautiful. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Greg leaned back into Mycroft. “How long has it been?” Mycroft furrowed his brow. Greg might have be looking the other way but he knew he lover well enough, “how long since we’ve sat here; together?”

“Two years, eleven months, and twenty-nine days.” Mycroft said, trying to keep his emotions from his tone.

Greg laid his head back into Mycroft’s shoulder. “This is why I love you.”

“Why? Because I worried about you every single day?” Mycroft asked, allowing a hint of sadness to enter his voice. “And when the two officers came to our door my heart shattered.”

“Because you care.” Greg said, dragging out the last word. “You basically run the army, and yet you drop everything for a simple Lance Corporal.”

“I think that makes me a very poor Field Marshal; I dropped all my duties, and all my supposed care for our soldiers abroad went out of the window as soon as my Lance Corporal got injured.” Mycroft paused for a minute, “and you’re not simple; you’re wonderful and beautiful and so, so special.”

Greg hummed his approval, “you do more than anyone else in your office, Mycroft. You got it so that we didn’t go to prison for- what was it? Homosexual tendencies? I think _you_ may be the special one.”

Mycroft kissed Greg’s exposed neck. “Come on, the doctor said you had to get some bedrest.”

Greg moaned as Mycroft pulled away but he laid down on his front. “Do you mind using the ointment Doctor Watson prescribed?”

Mycroft nodded, even though Greg couldn’t see him. He grabbed the oil from the bedside and poured a liberal amount his hands and he softly started to massage Greg’s back and shoulders.

Greg moaned and arched his back into the cool oil. “Oh God.”

Mycroft stopped, “Are you okay, Gregory? This isn’t hurting you is it?”

“N- no, it’s nice... the constant itching... please don’t stop.” Greg moaned, trying to twist his head to see Mycroft.

Mycroft complied and continued to massage Greg’s back. After a while Mycroft sat back and looked down at his partner. “How are you feeling?” Mycroft asked.

But all Mycroft got back was a light snore.

Mycroft smiled at Greg and stroked his hair softly. “You’re going to be okay, Gregory. I promise. I promise nothing is ever going to hurt you again.”

Mycroft quickly made himself a tea, before joining Greg in their bed. He stripped off all his clothes and sat beside his sleeping Greg. He watched his partner’s back rise and fall softly as he drank his tea. After he finished, he laid down beside Greg and draped an arm over his lower back.

“I love you.” Mycroft whispered before sleeping.

* * *

In the morning, Greg woke to the smell of frying bread and butter. He rolled out of bed and padded down to the kitchen, where Mycroft was cooking.

“Morning,” Greg said, making Mycroft jump.

“Gregory, you should be resting.” Mycroft replied, putting down the kitchen utensils and walking up to Greg.

“I have been doing... all night in fact. Today I want to be home.” Greg said quietly, stretching up and kissing Mycroft lightly.

Mycroft’s face split into a wide grin. He wrapped his arms around Greg’s waist and stepped between Greg’s legs.

Just before Mycroft could lean down to kiss Greg, the radio changed from the news to a song.

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas..._

Mycroft let out a small laugh and Greg softly swayed to the music. He couldn’t help but sway alongside his partner.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you a Christmas present. The only thing I brought back was some shrapnel, and I don’t think you want that.” Greg said, softly.

“You are more than enough.” Mycroft reached up and held Greg’s chin, “and I get to see the beard in the flesh.”

Mycroft leant down and kissed Greg slowly.

“Merry Christmas, beautiful.” Mycroft breathed into Greg’s mouth.

“Merry Christmas, handsome.”

As Greg’s tongue flicked against Mycroft’s lips, Mycroft thought to himself, _Don’t worry, I will stop the cavalry._


End file.
